Of Coffee Stains and Chipped Porcelain
by OhMyRaito
Summary: The bed remembers your shape, and I find myself sprawled across it in the mornings, my arm where your chest should be, and my legs tangled in the ghosts of yours.' Naruto on Sasuke, AU. Ish.


**Disclaimer: **Don't own Naruto.

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You're made of coffee stains and chipped porcelain. Something that was warm, but broke, spilled over the edges of everything, and became cold. Untouchable. You wait there, waiting for someone to clean you up, fix you. But it's not possible anymore, and the fact that you know that leaves an ache somewhere in my chest. You were once whole, but now you have tiny chips that leave tiny cuts on people who dare to touch. They sting and bleed forever, but you don't seem able to change this. And that hurts a little too. 

You're a watercolour painting of cubism. Soft colours and sharp edges, a lifetime of contradictions and an appearance of contrasts. Black and white, mellowed out to smoky grey and cream. You love the one person you live to kill, and you cry because it hurts to love. You do the opposite of what you're supposed to - when it's raining outside, you sit and laugh, and when it's sunny, you hide in shadows and glower at the sky. When you're sad, you don't go to people for comfort, you hold them far far away, as though you don't want them to get infected by the same thing that's coursing through your veins. And I think you're selfless, but you tell me not to be stupid.

You're the cold side of a pillow and sweaty limbs. You make me smile because you're fresh, so different, and you don't suffocate me. You just _be_. But you cling in the best ways, with legs entangled in mine and an arm thrown across my chest, and smell like sex and sweat. I told you once that I wish I could bottle up the smell, so I could open it at bad times, and be reminded of you. You smirked, made some cold, callous comment, but I noticed you stayed longer afterwards, and left clothing that smelled like you in my bedroom. It's in the corner of the room now, and you'll never take it back.

You're fluorescent street lighting and soft shadows. You light things up that nobody wants to see, sleazy streets and the girl on the corner. You show things, unabashedly, scream out what you are and know no one will take any notice anyway. You're something that could be beautiful, but you're so harsh, so _there _that it hurts, and you show everything that no one wants to see. People don't like you for that. I think it's some kind of bravery. And I can hide in you, for a while. From my monsters, from the people who hate me, from myself. And you don't mind. You let me stay there, you caress my cheek and make me into something beautiful. And I love you for that.

You're blood and flowers. The blood under your skin that I could hear when I put my ear to your chest and told you to _ssh..._The blood on my face when we fought and you got angry, so so angry. We were black and blue for half of our lives, but we always eased the pain with soft, butterfly kisses and light dragonfly touches. You had the sweetest way of saying my name, even when you were cursing me to the high heavens. I never sounded that beautiful, not even when I tried, but you did it unconsciously. You did everything as though it were natural, as though loving me was natural. You never needed flowers, chocolate and teddy bears. You were never like me, who resorted to quick cliché tricks to win your affection back. And you'd look at me, with pain in your eyes as though I _just didn't get it _but forgave me anyway. I think I hated you for that.

You're gone but here. This one hurts the most. The flowers, the blood, the street lighting, the soft shadows. The cold side of a pillow and sweaty limbs, the coffee stains and chipped porcelain. You're not here anymore and everything remembers you. There's still that stain on the wall where you threw your coffee cup in a fight, and I still drink from it in the mornings. There's still that wicker chair with half of the wood pulled off the side, and if I close my eyes I see you sitting there with your head on your knee, twirling the wicker through your fingers and not even realising. The bed remembers your shape, and I find myself sprawled across it in the mornings, my arm where your chest should be, and my legs tangled in the ghosts of yours. And I miss you...so...so much.

Please. Come home. Just...put the coffee machine on, sit in that chair you always claimed was yours, and watch me as I water the cactus. Make some snide remark about a man on TV, and how the news was always really old, so old that it just kept on repeating. Hold my hair back for me when I'm ill, and make ramen soup in that weird way you have, where you place a sprig of something on top and never really put all the flavourings in.

I'm sick of bad days, and you're the only one that makes them good.

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**A/N: **I...actually have no idea. Just opened this thing on the documents manager, put on some Coldplay, and started typing. Figured I needed something completed for my library. And I needed some tension reliever, and my own stories need some serious plot rethinking... 

Hope you enjoyed.

**_EDIT:_** Thank you very muchly for your support, I appreciate it. But if you put something in a community, could you tell me please? A PM or review would do fine, I'd just like to know where my writing's going and who saw it so I can thank them with the proper amount of of oh-em-gees and cyber cookies. Thank you


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